First chapter of 'The Golden Man'

It just seemed like a normal day. Outside my window the sky was overcast and gloomy, which exactly matched my mood, while inside, my normally spacious rooms seemed oppressive and to be closing in on me. For some days now I hadn’t been able to raise my spirits and nothing interested me. I was bored and most definitely at a loose end. “When a man is bored with London, he is bored with life” I seemed to remember learning at school. Dr Johnson or some other learned fellow. Well, that was me: bored.
I rose from my armchair and crossed to the window. When in a better frame of mind, I enjoyed the view over the usually well-tended gardens of the square, but with autumn setting in, there was nobody around, the trees were bare and the leaves were just a soggy mess on the grass. I turned away from the window and the dreary view.
I pulled out my fob-watch and opened it up for what seemed to be the umpteenth time. Still only half past ten. I sighed and wondered idly if my landlady Mrs Merchant would be amenable to making me a pot of tea and some toasted muffins. Fine woman that she was, both appeared within a few minutes of me asking, but disappeared as quickly as I could get them down.
Even after that, and believe me I’d tried to drag out the mid-morning snack for as long as I could, I felt it was still too early for my club. I just couldn’t bring myself to be one of those people who spent all their time in the place, draped in the huge leather armchairs, either half asleep or half drunk, or usually both. Still, there would be company of sorts, even if it was only the barman or the waiters, and that might be a useful distraction.
I tried a book, even though I’ve never really been one for reading, but found myself reading the same paragraph over and over again, and it wasn’t that good a book anyway. Maybe I should have accepted Freddie Huntingdon’s offer of a couple of weeks at his father’s place down in the West Country, for “bit of shooting, fishing, drinking and chasing the girls,” as he’d so succinctly put it. There was still time, and I knew I’d certainly be welcome, but I couldn’t work up the enthusiasm.
In the end, I decided to dress and go down to the club anyway, just to get out of these damnable rooms, and maybe have a bite of lunch. Then there was a knock on the door. It was Mrs Merchant, holding an envelope.
“Telegram boy brought this for you, Mr Nicholson.” It wasn’t unusual for me to receive telegrams, usually a last-minute invitation to make up the numbers at some country house weekend party of some acquaintance or other.
“Thank you, Mrs Merchant,” I said. “Will you tell him ‘No reply’ for me?” I asked, and closed the door.
Before going any further with this, I suppose I should take the chance to introduce myself. My name is Martin Nicholson, second son of the late Earl of Hartesbury, and I’m in the lucky position of not having to work for a living, but having enough money to get by quite comfortably. I have rooms in Kensington, with elder brother Donald picking up the tab.
The old man had been a bit of an adventurer in his day, and brother Donald was very much an outdoor pursuits person and definitely a chip off the old block, so the two of them were close; I think I was generally a bit of a disappointment to both of them, taking much more after my mother as I did, and being an indoors sort of person.
Now, as I said, it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for me to receive invitations, so I put this particular telegram on the table, thinking nothing of it, and planning to read it later. After all, it was only Tuesday, and if it was what I thought it was, an invitation for the coming weekend, I had plenty of time to reply and make arrangements. I went out.
The club did nothing to lighten my mood. There was no one of any interest around, but I did have a damned fine lunch, washed down with a good claret, albeit by myself. I took a cab into town and occupied myself with a stroll along Oxford Street, until it started raining. Then I returned to my rooms, where Mrs Merchant was waiting for me before I even made it the stairs.
“There’s been another telegram for you,” she said. Someone obviously wanted me rather urgently. I thanked her and took it from her, and ripped open the envelope as I walked up the stairs.
“Passage booked SS Solemar. Stop. Leaves Liverpool Fri 2 pm. Stop. Collect documents at Harbour Office. Stop. Elliott.” I stopped outside my door and read it again. Even after another reading, it made no sense, so I checked that it was actually for me; it wasn’t beyond the telegraph office to have made a mistake, but it mine. Why on earth was I booked on a steamship? And where was it going? The name of the sender set alarm bells ringing – Elliott.
My closest friend all through school and university, Stephen Elliott, ‘Elly’ to friends and enemies alike, hadn’t been a part of my life for nearly twelve years, so why was I suddenly receiving telegrams from him offering me tickets on a steamship to God knows where? And as if to rub salt in the wound, from Liverpool, a city I’d never had any desire to visit. Everything I read in the newspapers said the place was awash with drunks. It sounded suspiciously like some evil practical joke. I checked where the telegram had come from. I wasn’t expecting Venezuela.
What could it be about? I have to admit my thinking may not have been as clear as it could have been, after all, it was a very good claret but when I went into my rooms, and saw the earlier telegram lying on the table where I’d left it, I had a flash of inspiration, or possibly just common sense. It might just hold the answer. And it did, after a fashion.
“Need you Venezuela ASAP. Stop. Something exciting. Stop. Elliott.” Things seemed to be getting worse. What I’d been thinking was an invitation to a country house for a weekend party, not South America. It stopped feeling like a practical joke and became slightly more serious.
Stephen Elliott had been worryingly like my father, and my brother Donald, for that matter. Like them, he was an outdoor type, captain of both rugger and cricket teams and always up for some sort of adventure or scrape. And for some reason I could never quite fathom, I was the poor sap who ended up going along with him, usually against my better judgement.
My first thought was that it better be something damned exciting to make me drop everything and get myself ready to go to Venezuela of all places, with just three days’ notice. And it involved a trip to Liverpool.
Well, I must say I was starting to get pretty worked up. How dare Elly presume I would drop everything and go off gallivanting half way round the world! The absolute cheek of it! And then it hit me, like a bucket of cold water. I had nothing to drop, as it were. There was nothing to keep me in London, nothing to keep me in England, for that matter. And I thought why not? The claret either helped or clouded my thinking, I’m not sure which, but I decided to go ahead and do it.
The decision surprised me so much and was so out of character that I had to sit down on the nearest chair. After all, what did I know about Venezuela? It was in South America. A good start. Jungles came to mind. Wild animals, certainly. Snakes, without a doubt and with that thought I’m glad I was sitting down – I hate the damnable things. It was almost enough to make my new resolution waver. It doesn’t matter how often people tell me the things aren’t slimy. Hostile natives also came to mind, but you could almost take that for granted in these foreign parts.
After a pause, when I’m man enough to admit I may have gone to sleep, two much more pleasant thoughts hit me. A quick glance out of the window confirmed the importance of the first – sunshine. It would be delightful to get away from this dreary weather. And then – how did the cheap penny novels put it? Oh yes, a bevy of dusky maidens. But it all still added up to a large amount of potential danger. Not to mention discomfort. Or that trip to Liverpool and an Atlantic crossing. It felt like time for another cup of Mrs Merchant’s tea.